


In Any Universe

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mentions of Mirror!Character death, Mind Manipulation, Mind Meld, Mirror Universe, T'hy'la, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim harbors a secret that he can’t escape, no matter how hard he tries. And when a first move comes unexpectedly, he finds that what seems too good to be true most definitely is. </p><p>Spock never wished to burden his first friendship with shameful emotion. But when his hand is forced, he discovers that truth would have been stronger than ignorance.   </p><p>Attraction comes full circle as both Jim and Spock realize the consequences of “meant to be”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

 I.

 

     The stun beam had hit him while he was standing on the beach looking out at the rolling alien surf, the soft sand and the crash of water muffling the other’s approach. And now the salty scent of the sea hung in the room, along with the damp heaviness of humid air, and Spock perceived that the ocean was nearby, perhaps steps outside of this place.

     The silence around him was filled with psionic vibrations: seething, powerful, unabashed emotion that flowed over Spock’s nerves and seeped through his shields. There was raw power here, lurking in the darkness beyond the blindfold over his eyes, and it was disconcertingly familiar. He had the sense of significant alignment of his own mental energies, something he had only felt once before: standing in his own presence after the Battle of Earth, looking into his own aged face. But this, this was harsher, more immediate, more frantic, and, combined with the immoveable restraints securing him to some kind of flat, unforgiving surface, was resulting in a sharp rise of emotion, despite his controls.

     Spock heard a low chuckle from his right side.

     “I can smell your fear.”

     The voice was also familiar, and Spock heard movement, the shift and crunch of sand grains against the floor, as the other stepped towards him.

     “Taking you was almost too easy; I had anticipated more of a fight.” A huff. “Perhaps my ego misinformed my expectations.”

     Spock kept silent, sensing desperate eagerness and excitement over a background of roiling grief and bitter determination. Nothing was hidden: emotions were projected as if the other couldn’t control, or simply didn’t care to do so. Spock felt the other’s hand smooth down the front of his black tunic, picking up an odd spicy scent from the other’s hair.

     “You are prettier than I. Tell me, Spock, do you kneel in service to your _t’hy’la’_ s whim, or does he to you?”

     That archaic term caused an involuntary turn of Spock’s head and the other man chuckled again, dryly.

     “He was not with you; a situation on the ship, no doubt. When do you expect to meet him?”

     Spock strengthened his mental shields, sensing the almost casual probe that snaked towards his mind. In this proximity he could feel the discipline behind the other’s action. No android, this, and no lazy attempt at duplication. This person sounded and felt and smelled Vulcan.

     “You will tell me, of course. I’ve always wondered—.” The voice trailed off, and Spock suppressed a gasp as his tunic was pushed up, exposing his torso to chilled, damp air. The hand that had moved down his chest now pressed against his side, over his heart, and a flood of touch-sense crashed against his shields along with inescapable knowledge. This was _him_ : himself from another universe. Spock had the startling impulse to laugh in the face of this unbelievable situation, an impulse that was stifled as he felt the cold blade of a knife slice into his skin.

     The cut wasn’t deep enough to seriously damage, but it would certainly leave a scar, and as Spock felt the delicate, macabre design continue over his chest and upper abdomen, he drew careful breath, finally speaking.

     “Why are you inscribing those particular words into my flesh?”

     The cuts did not stop as the other replied evenly, “You should carry the mark of your _t’hy’la_. When he is taken from you and you bare your chest to the winds before taking your own life, this claim shall be evident to the gods. Perhaps they will forgive you for failing your warrior-bond even if he will not.”

     Spock swallowed. “I am not thusly bound, and decidedly not to the one you so indicate.”

     The last cut finished with a deep flourish, and Spock felt the warmth of his own blood trailing over his skin.

     “I beg your pardon.” The voice was low and dangerous. “You presume to lie to me?”

     “Vulcans do not lie.”

     A snort. “Indeed?” There was silence, and Spock could feel the other’s scrutiny. “Is it possible you do not yet know?”

     The mental attack came without warning, and now Spock did cry out as relentless fingers pressed against his face, a powerful force battering his shields. It was fierce and multi-faceted, changing tactic and approach, and Spock fought back, employing all his discipline, all his considerable talent and the strength of his formidable gift: his gift, which this other also possessed.

     The onslaught was vicious and determined, and the barriers between them thinned as the other pressed, attacking without restraint. But the knowledge that the other was interested somehow in _Jim_ galvanized Spock, and he pushed back, striking deep and causing the other to release him and step away, breathing hard.

     “Perhaps my…ego…was not falsely inflated after all.” The other stepped backwards again, and Spock heard the odd shuffle of feet, as if he moved unsteadily. There was a small metallic noise and the footsteps returned, and Spock could sense the other’s malice and anticipation mixed with distorted lust.

     “Your shields are resilient, but they are based in simple physical being: nerves, electrical impulse, flesh. And though the spirit may be strong, the flesh is weak.” The other chuckled darkly. “So weak.”

     The cold press of metal came again, but this time just beneath his collarbone. This new object was small and blunt, and the immediate flash of pain radiating from its location was overwhelming. Spock gasped, feeling his body convulse against the cutting restraints. He couldn’t get enough oxygen, and he felt a burst of coppery blood in his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek, keeping himself from screaming. He would not be heard, this other would have seen to that, and he would retain some semblance of dignity even in the face of this. Everything was white, everything was pain, and he struggled to remember the mind rules, seeing nothing but… .

     The agony stopped abruptly, and Spock heard the other chuckle tightly, feeling a finger swipe across his bloody chest.

     “I can now understand why my captain enjoyed watching my own suffering so much. The way my body must have moved, like yours does now: involuntary, so primal, thrusting, _bleeding_. He would take me like this, sating himself while I screamed. As you will scream for me, now.”

     Spock could sense the lust pouring off of the other chased by the sudden bite of sharp grief and managed one deep breath before the device ignited his nerves again. And again. _And again_.

     The final round lasted interminably, and Spock felt tears wet the blindfold, felt his muscles spasm and, finally, he couldn’t help screaming, his voice coming raggedly.

     The first thing he felt as the pain ended was the press of fingers against his face, a hovering force poised for attack, waiting until Spock was fully aware, wanting him to feel everything, to be cognizant of everything. He could barely move, feeling what was left of his shields as bare, wispy filaments, his limbs still shivering with aftershocks from the device.

     The fingers pressed harder, bruising his skin, and Spock was helpless against the assault as it forced its way into his mind. The other didn’t even bother to shield himself, and Spock saw where he was from, saw how he had engineered his presence here, saw who he had come for and why.

     _Jim… ._

     _Yes,_ the other hissed, _he is your_ t’hy’la _and you did not even know. You can feel the link now, though, can you not? You can reach and feel his mind now, can you not? I can, and I will, and I will do other things that you would never dare._

     Spock could feel Jim, a small, latent link now shoved open by the other’s brutal mind, and as he felt the other push, sliding through and widening the link, pouring towards and into Jim’s mind, he began to struggle again.

     Surprise and grief and anger ricocheted into Spock’s thoughts as the other probed the captain’s unknowing subconscious. _So, he cares for you as you care for him? How poetic. I will make him believe and then he’ll come to me willingly, and this bond shall be mine. He shall be mine. And then he shall return with me and I will have my James again, my_ t’hy’la _._

     “No!” Spock heard his own cry as a distant thing, echoing over the burning mental landscape.

     The other’s dark laughter felt like fire against his thoughts. _You should be thanking me. This is mercy: to take him now, before you experienced what could have been. To have it ripped away from you after that realization would only lead to insanity._

     A vicious mental push.

_And though insanity suits me, my counterpart, it would destroy everything you are. This is mercy, Spock; for the first time in my life, I am merciful._

          

 

 


	2. II.

II.

 

     The chime of the transporter faded and Jim tilted his head back, breathing in thick, misty air laden with the smells of cooking food and the nearby sea, hearing voices speaking a hundred tongues and the shrill excitement of alien music. He opened his eyes, seeing the glory of a thousand stars nestled amidst velvet dark beyond the glow of two moons. The separation of a blanket of atmosphere made the stars, and the ship, seem so far away.

     His footsteps were quick and confident on smooth pavement and the breeze drifted over his slightly outstretched hands, ruffling his hair. The movement of beings all around him whispered against his senses. No one knew him here. No one was counting on him for a signature or a command. No one was watching him or monitoring his heart rate or his diet. He was simply a human on leave with a generous credit chip and a slightly smug expression, and there were an awful lot of those. He could disappear.   

     Jim relaxed, slowly adjusting his gait from the crisp purposefulness of shipboard necessity into a rolling swagger, feeling strong and vital, full of anticipation and trouble. He was ready to let that dormant, dangerous part of himself out; he needed do something stupid tonight just to forget what had lingered around every corner on his ship, to forget what he had to hide, what he could never have.

     He crossed the threshold of the first dive he came across, moving assuredly to the back bar and slipping his jacket off.

     The young bartender wore a smirk that spoke of an inherent understanding of his newest customer, and Jim smiled, knowing he must be as obvious as fuck.

     “Yeah?” the barman prompted. “What’ll you have?”

     “Surprise me,” Jim replied smoothly, barely noticing the man’s answering nod as he glanced around at the dark corners and exotic lighting, breathing in unfamiliar spice and heat. There weren’t very many beings in the shadows here in the back; most were clustered over on the makeshift dance floor, writhing to a hard, gritty beat.

     He couldn’t help moving to the music: small, sensual movements that were as freeing as his own anonymity. Here, he was no one and anyone. Here, danger could be experienced and then, most importantly, let go. He wondered if it was a sign of cowardice to come here tonight deliberately seeking some edge with which to cut himself open, but yet unable to confront the thing that he silently kept hidden.

     The bartender set a glass down with deliberate force, sending the green liquid swirling and breaking Jim’s reverie.

     The young man leaned forward conspiratorially. “You want action? I can get you anything or anyone you want.”

     Jim licked his lips and took a draw, hissing as the liquid burned its way down his throat. “I doubt it, but I’ll let you know.”

     The bartender shrugged as Jim threw back the rest of the drink.

     “Another?”

     “Fuck, yeah.”

     The alcohol hit immediately, and Jim closed his eyes as the music changed, its shifting beat seeming to pulse through his veins along with the rhythm of blood, the sound of his heart, the familiar scent of—.

     _Jim!_

     The distant call was so clear, and he opened his eyes with a startled gasp, but there was no one there.

     “Fuck.”

     He furrowed his brow and lifted his glass, taking another generous swallow, feeling the rough edges begin to blur as the beat worked its way deeper into his veins. He had wanted to leave this behind: echoes of a voice, the long lines of a body, longing pushed so far down that he had grown used to the dull ache in his chest. He knocked back the liquor and felt his hand tremble as he placed the glass on the bar, his self-assured expression fading slightly.

     “You want another?” the bartender asked, raising his eyebrows.

     Jim grunted and nodded absently, glancing back at the dance floor.

     “Yeah.”

     The man peered at him as he poured the liquor. “This won’t make you forget whatever it was that brought you here.” He crossed his arms. “But other things might. You sure you won’t take me up on that offer? I’ll get you the best deal out there.”

     Jim closed his eyes lazily as he drank deeply, relishing the stinging heat that flowed down his throat. A haze was spreading, and he felt careless, remembering the days before the Fleet when he was a rude little fuck who indulged his hazardous streak way too often. He suddenly had a strong desire for a fight.

     “Sure,” he said, opening his eyes and tilting his head. “Anything I want? Anyone?”

     The younger man’s eyes narrowed slightly but he nodded. “Yeah. What’ll it be?”

     Jim set the glass down and leaned closer, saying lecherously, “Get me a Vulcan.”

     The bartender looked almost comically shocked before his expression darkened. “Fuck you, man. I can’t even tell you how fucked up that is. They’re almost fucking extinct.”

     “You said anyone,” Jim purred. “The truth will set you free.”

     “Get the fuck out of here.”

     Jim smirked and waved his chip over the scanner. “Thanks for a good time.”

     He pushed through the growing crowd, heading towards the exit, his smirk fading. His hazy confidence was completely gone, the edge now feeling more like the precipice of fear. He felt trapped, and the anonymous allure of his surroundings now seemed desperate and hollow. He needed to get away.

     _Jim, return to the ship._

     He ignored the strange voice, dismissing it as a figment of his imagination; the beach was so close, visible through the mass of beings and garishly lit storefronts and bars. Jim moved faster and determinedly towards the sand, the humidity slickening his skin, his shirt and jeans clinging to him.

     Waves washed in and retreated, and the sounds of the revelry on the main strip vanished as Jim slid down the tall berm to the expanse of white sand, glimmering with the brilliant reflected lunar light. He breathed in, inhaling the slightly unfamiliar salty tang, feeling the warmth of the sea breeze over his body. He was a coward after all and the fight he had sought now seemed ridiculous. If it was truly danger that he wanted, all he would have had to do was say something to his friend, who would then be his friend no longer.

_Jim! Hear me!_

     He concluded that he was drunk and imagining all sorts of shit, and slipped off his shoes, kicking them to the side, nonchalantly dropping his jacket and walking down to the edge of the water. His toes curled in the lukewarm foam, and he closed his eyes.

     “James.”

     He froze, and the first thought through his mind was that he was insane. The second thought was that he was really fucking drunk, and, for a bare instant he couldn’t decide which was preferable. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, lingering only an instant before being withdrawn.

     It took a hell of a lot to gather his composure, but Jim opened his eyes and slowly turned, meeting his first officer’s gaze evenly.

     “How the fuck did you find me?”

     Spock was dressed in black, throwing his pale complexion into stark relief, emphasizing the points of his ears and the darkness of his eyes. He looked seductive, his stance loose, pliant.

     “You called me.”

     Jim snorted roughly, taking a step back, letting the water sweep fully over his feet. “I didn’t, actually.”

     The Vulcan tilted his head. “Indeed, you did.”

     Jim was insane. He was imagining all this, and he wanted to kill that fucking bartender for doping his drinks. Reality was crashing unbelievably around him, and Jim felt a strong urge to simply walk away.

     _Run!_

     “Why did you not tell me?” Spock’s eyes were too intense, too knowing, and almost passionate. It was extremely disconcerting and the air seemed too heavy, the pulse of blood in Jim’s veins too fast.

     _Jim, run!_

     “Because I’m not fucking stupid,” Jim blurted, deciding that Spock had asked for it. “Because we were on the ship and there would be nowhere to go when it all went wrong.”

     “You left.” The Vulcan’s voice was low and throaty. He seemed so close but yet so distant, his dark clothes so incongruous on this heated, lush world, on this open, breeze-swept beach. Jim wanted to take them off.

     “I’m on fucking leave,” the human retorted sarcastically, seeing an arched eyebrow lift. He made a face. “Fine. I came here to forget, to get past it, to disappear. I came here to be alone, because you were everywhere I looked, and I couldn’t see past you.” Jim’s words tumbled out and he exhaled, saying resignedly, “Why are you here, Spock?”

     “For you, James.”

     Jim’s jaw worked, and he finally whispered, “Bullshit.”

     “It is not.” Dark eyes lowered before peering up through thick lashes. “I apologize for intruding, however, I could not allow this to go further.”

     “I understand,” Jim muttered tightly, beginning to turn away.

_Jim, go now, please._

     “You do not!” Spock moved forward forcefully and Jim looked sharply at the Vulcan, holding his own hands up in instinctive defensiveness. Spock stopped abruptly.

     “You do not understand, if you mean to turn me away,” he said, the softness of his voice contrasting with the heat in his eyes. “You do not understand that I could not continue as we were, if we were both in pain.” Spock slowly lifted his own hands, pale in the moonlight, bringing them with exaggerated care towards Jim’s own, and the air was alive with something that crackled along Jim’s nerves, sparking over his skin.

     Jim held absolutely still. “How long did you know?”

     Spock’s fingers were so close. “I was not certain, even as I departed from the ship. And then I felt your mind call to me and I sensed such pain as I carry within myself. It occurred to me that you may have _wanted_ , as I did, and yet did not say anything, as I did not, and for similar reasons.”

     “You wanted me?” Jim’s voice was so quiet, even as something inside of him screamed.

     “I want you.” Spock murmured, and only a hair’s breath separated their hands.

     Jim swallowed. And reached. And their hands touched.

     Mental shields seemed shockingly nonexistent, and Jim felt a stream of thoughts intertwine with his own: the longing, the watching, the pushing forward and pulling back just enough to prevent it all from being too obvious. Everything was so clear and yet almost too bright: given, not offered, on the edge of being forced upon him. Jim flinched, and felt the internal scream again.

     _No!_

     “I want you,” Spock said again, more insistently, and it echoed distractingly in the human’s mind. Warm fingers slid sensually along Jim’s, entwining and caressing, constantly moving in an almost ritualistic pattern. The sensations of desire were growing: slow-burning desperation, rising need.

     “There are still reasons why we can’t do this,” Jim said absently, watching the play of their hands.

     “Perhaps.” Spock’s eyes were focused on Jim’s mouth.

     Jim exhaled, and it all seemed so fucking inevitable now when just five minutes ago it was nothing but ridiculous fantasy. He curled his fingers, interrupting the alien dance across his skin, sliding his hands over slender wrists and up clothed arms. The murmur of the Vulcan’s thoughts did not cease, surging closer against Jim’s own.

     “You heard me call you now, but not those other nights?”

     “Other nights?” Spock asked, studying Jim’s face.

     “Yeah,” Jim replied, his hands moving up Spock’s arms to his shoulders. “Those nights when you left, or I left, and I still wanted you. And I thought of you: how you would feel, how you would taste.” He closed his eyes. “How you would walk away from me if I ever told you. And how someday, after the mission, or even sooner, I would never see you again.”

     Spock moved closer, his boots now completely wet as the water came in, his hands drifting to Jim’s waist, his fingers sliding under the human’s thin shirt. “I also thought of you, of touching you, joining your mind. My inability to control my desires is most shameful.”

     “Don’t leave.” Jim looked at his friend, his improbable lover, with pleading eyes.

     “I will not.”

     “Swear.”

     Spock hesitated, his fingers pressing possessively into Jim’s skin. His lips quirked, and he said plainly, almost playfully, “Fuck.”

     Jim grinned, his hands sliding up the Vulcan’s neck, into his hair, the mindsong calling him, pulling at him so adamantly, drowning out that other desperate voice that screamed, _Don’t let him meld with you!_

     “Let me bond with you, James,” Spock breathed, and warm fingers were sliding to Jim’s face, and the sense of inevitability was encompassing. It was all so sudden, and all so inescapable, and in the dreamlike haze of it all Jim knew that someone was screaming at him, crying out for him, and the mental sound of it finally broke into his reality like shattered glass.

_JIM!_

     Jim blinked, confused, as cruel burn scars disfiguring the other man’s cheek seemed to materialize out of the haze, trailing over a suddenly angry expression in a face that had spontaneously aged twenty years. Hypnotic mental warmth turned sharply cold as the other’s hand fell from his face to grip with vicious strength in the front of Jim’s shirt, shaking him roughly as another hand came down to press against the junction of his neck and shoulder with dizzying force.

     “He is a stubborn fool. He calls to you, even now, but he cannot prevent this.”

     This was _not Spock_ , but a stranger wearing a semblance of his friend’s countenance, a harshly unfamiliar voice coming from twisted, familiar lips, an _imposter_ , and Jim’s mind was clear, terribly clear, even as his limbs faltered, feeling heavy and useless.

     “No!”

     “You are a pitiful human; a pale shadow of what I once had. So easily controlled, no fight, no passion.” The imposter’s eyes glittered and one of his hands rose to press iron fingers against Jim’s face. And this was helplessness, as Jim felt mental strength beyond anything he’d experienced before. Dark, serious purpose, and relentless pressure, and Jim began to panic, fighting with everything he had against the intrusion, against the tendrils the reached inexorably for him.

     “Jim! No!”

     Spock’s voice came from behind them and Jim was shoved viciously away to fall onto the sand, watching the scarred imposter turn with inhuman speed, reaching for a heretofore-unseen weapon.

     Phaser light flashed and then a body slammed into the imposter, knocking them both away and to the side. Jim struggled to move, his arms and legs sluggish as he watched the identical forms wrestling on the sand, rolling into the surf, illuminated by the gleaming light of the two moons.

     The contest was deadly serious and lightning fast: arms and legs grappling, dark blood from one of them mixing with the clear water. A strangled cry sounded above the struggle, followed by the sound of several rapid blows, and Jim shoved himself over to grab the fallen phaser, slipping awkwardly in the wet sand and aiming it directly at the black-clad back of the imposter, seeing his scars glinting in the light, white teeth bared as he straddled Spock’s body, holding his head under the shallow water.

     “Let him go!” Jim’s body still felt weak, and he could hear the blood pounding through his ears. The imposter smirked and merely shoved Spock deeper underwater, hands around his neck. “Let him fucking go!” the captain yelled, pulling the trigger almost before the words left his mouth.

     The bolt grazed the older Vulcan’s shoulder and he shuddered, turning his head and fixing fierce dark eyes on Jim. And there was nothing but death and desperation in their depths: a madness that was completely alien and chilled Jim to the bone.

     The Vulcan’s lips curled in a cruel grin. “You are barely half the man I expected. A fool _and_ a coward.”

     Jim pulled the trigger again and the imposter grunted; eyes falling closed as he slid to the side, Spock’s body rising to bob in the water. Jim let out a wordless cry, pushing himself forward through the shifting sand and water, grabbing his friend’s shirt and turning him over, seeing closed eyes and no signs of life, blood trailing in lazy trails from mouth and nose.

     A swirl of light from beside him came unexpectedly, and Jim gasped as the imposter’s body disappeared into a scintillating glow. The weight of his friend’s body brought him sharply back, and he pulled, struggling, dragging him further up into the sand, the feeling returning to his own limbs.

     “Spock!” Jim turned the Vulcan to his side, letting water drain, and then onto his back, kneeling next to him and pressing his fingers to his pulse point. Nothing. And his communicator was in his jacket pocket, somewhere next to the berm. Jim cursed his own fucking gullible stupidity.

     “Shit. Come on.” He positioned his hands over his friend’s side, beginning the rapid compressions and breaths as he’d been taught. One cycle. Two. The sound of Spock’s sudden ragged cough and choking broke through the eerie silence in between crashing waves, and the Vulcan’s body convulsed and turned to the side as he vomited blood and water and greenish foam onto the sand.

     Shaken and shaking, Jim held Spock’s shoulders as his friend’s body shuddered again and again, great heaving breaths slowly quieting. Pale fingers curled into the wet sand and Jim pushed himself up. “I’m gonna call for help. Just hang on, I’ll be back.” He stumbled towards the small pile of cloth and shoes, sliding and crawling as he reached it and lifting the small device from his jacket pocket, flipping it open even as he turned and fought back to his friend’s side.

     “Kirk to…Kirk to _Enterprise_. Emergency!”

_“Gendreau here, sir. I have your coordinates.”_

     “Medical emergency. Two to beam up, have medics standing by.”

_“Aye, Captain, switching. Thirty seconds; stand by.”_

     Jim fell to his knees next to his friend, lifting his head onto his lap, away from the splattered green. Spock’s hair and skin were covered in sand and the captain stared down at him as lids lifted slowly to reveal unfocused dark eyes.

     “Jim,” he whispered hoarsely, “Did he…touch…your mind?”

     Jim shook his head. “I don’t know, I think so, maybe. Who the fuck was he?”

     “Not yours. Not—.” Spock’s eyes fell closed again as Jim felt the transporter take them.

 

 


	3. III.

III.

 

     Jim stood stiffly in the chill air of the medbay, arms crossed, knees locked, his jaw aching. His mind was starkly clear and also cold, and he felt grossly nauseous. Everything that happened since he had beamed down: his insurmountable need to escape, his sudden inability to deal with an attraction that had successfully remained hidden for two years, the insatiable lust for danger, his idiotic behavior in the bar, his swooning on the beach. All were now gone and glaringly false in hindsight, and in their hollow void he felt humiliated and violated and disgusted with himself for his weakness.

     “Captain.” The security chief spoke cautiously as she neared him. “Excuse me, sir.”

     Jim’s eyes flicked up. “Go ahead, Chief.”

     “Scan reports verify security records, sir. No unauthorized individuals detected onboard ship. No unauthorized transport, and all shuttlecraft check out. After Commander Spock disembarked no orders were relayed using his command codes or voice authorization.” She cleared her throat. “Planetside security reports picking up a transporter signal as you described, but the origination was obscured.”

     “So the imposter got away,” Jim commented flatly.

     “We’re currently holding security alert and quarantine, Captain. All ship’s personnel are being checked and no transports are permitted with the exception of code-one essential crew. Planetary authorities are coordinating manual orbital checks and long-range scans. Perhaps if you could—.”

     “I’ve told you everything I know!” Jim broke in angrily. He saw the chief’s brow furrow and he winced. “I’m sorry.”

     Her expression softened. “It’s alright, sir. Is Commander Spock—?”

     “I don’t know yet.”

     “Of course.” She exhaled and her eyes flicked over his form. Jim realized that he was still barefoot, still dressed in damp and stiff jeans and a stained t-shirt.

      “Captain, with all due respect, perhaps you should get some rest. My team and I have this under control and I’ll report any new information.”

     He forced a tight smile. “Thanks, Anijah. I’ll, uh, I think I’ll stay here.”

     “I understand, sir.” She glanced at the doors to the IC unit, pity flashing across her face before she carefully looked away and turned to go.

     Jim waited until he heard the outer doors open and shut before gnawing viciously on his thumbnail. Command had thrown a shit fit when he had reported the mysterious compromise of both himself and his first officer. High-order codes had been immediately changed, and Jim was ordered off-duty until he could be cleared by both psych and medical. However, with the ship on lockdown in the middle of an assigned shore leave and only a bare skeleton crew onboard, he’d been left to pace the medbay alone, waiting, lost in his own troubled thoughts.

     “Jim!”

     The captain turned at the sound of McCoy’s voice.

     “Jesus, Jim, I just got back onboard; they’re not letting anyone through. What happened? Something about an imposter and Spock nearly drowning and you being psi-compromised?”

     Jim felt haggard, and simply gestured in the direction of the closed doors. “I haven’t heard anything yet.”

     Bones paused, furrowing his brow as he looked his friend over, and then spoke a little too loudly, “Okay, Jim, just stay here.”

     The captain uncharacteristically didn’t move or argue, and ignored the odd look McCoy threw at him before the doctor disappeared through the doors. Jim was shaken, deeply shaken; somehow what he had hidden, what he had pushed away for duty’s sake, for friendship’s sake, had been discovered and exploited. His own mind had been influenced, his emotions controlled, his perceptions altered. The imposter had looked exactly like his science officer, down to his hands and his lips, his voice, and his eyes. But then those scars had emerged and true age had been revealed as the mental manipulation had retreated, as the _real_ Spock’s mind had somehow forced its way through, and the imposter had seemed completely different. Jim crossed his arms again, nausea rising as he realized that his own mind had been an unwitting battleground.

     The doors slid open again with a hiss and McCoy gestured. “Come on, Jim.”

     And the imposter had gotten to Spock first. Jim remembered the insistent internal cries, the mental screams to run, to get away. He remembered his friend’s headlong, violent rush as the imposter had reached for Jim’s mind. He shook himself, walking slowly to the doors, following the doctor, simultaneously eager and reluctant and suddenly scared to death.

     Jim’s shoulders drew up against the chill, and he shot an accusing glare at McCoy. “Why is it fucking freezing?”

     The doctor eyed him. “It’s easily 24°C in here, Jim.”

     “Doesn’t feel like it.” His voice trailed off as he glimpsed a solitary figure on the nearest biobed and his jaw tensed. “How is he?”

     McCoy nodded to a passing nurse and stopped next to the bed. “He’s unconscious, obviously. Doctor Eisenberg had to sedate him to fix his lungs after the damage done by aspirating all that seawater and he’s either unable or unwilling to enter a trance so she kept him under.” He hesitated, looking at Jim. “The report showed marks and injuries consistent with him being restrained before he broke out by brute force, obviously to get to you.”

     He stopped and ran a hand over his mouth. “Jim, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it; he was tortured. Scans showed his nervous system was subjected to repeated, powerful, debilitating stimulation, and someone got creative with a knife.”

     Jim pressed his lips together, asking quietly, “What about his mind, Bones.”

     “I don’t know,” the doctor replied. “Like I said, he hasn’t gone into a trance.”

     Jim swallowed, noticing something on pale skin.

     “What are—,” he began, pointing to mirrored patterns of small bruises on either side of Spock’s face. “Fuck. Those are…fuck.”

     “What, Jim?” McCoy leaned over to have a better look.

     The captain’s voice lowered to a hiss. “That fucker forced a meld on him. Look at the marks!”

     “Jesus.” McCoy grimaced.

     Jim expression was grim. “That’s how he knew.”

     “Who?”

     “The imposter, the…the other Spock. That’s how he knew about…about everything. That’s how he was able to—.” Jim stopped abruptly, staring at his unconscious friend.

     McCoy was looking at him strangely, but the captain ignored him, the revelation sliding into a growing rage deep inside Jim’s being. Fire mixed with the perceived ice in the room and as he stared at the fingerprints on his friend’s face he felt his hands start to shake.

     “Jim.” McCoy’s voice sounded distant. “Jim, I think you should lie down.”

     The feelings hadn’t been imposed. They had been distorted, and amplified in a way that had been inescapable, but the feelings hadn’t been wrong, and to simplify them as _attraction_ was a lie: a reflexive lie that he had even begun to believe himself, before this. What he had said to the imposter, _I thought of you: how you would feel, how you would taste_ , had been all too true. And to think that it had been brought to the surface amidst torture and pain, amidst mental assault and fear made him more than angry. He wanted blood. He wanted vengeance. Jim swayed, feeling McCoy’s arms come around him, the doctor’s voice muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

    And then there was a moan from the body in front of them, and Jim jerked in his friend’s arms, pushing him away as Spock’s eyelids fluttered and the moan came again.

     “Spock?” Jim heard beeping from the overhead monitor and shouting from behind him as he reached out to grasp his friend’s arm. “Spock?”

     “Jim, get back!” McCoy grabbed him roughly, shaking him, forcing Jim to meet his eyes. “Get out. He’s in bad shape and he shouldn’t be coming out of it yet. Go to your quarters and lie down.”

     “Bones—.”

     Jim looked back at the bed, and McCoy shook him again. “That’s a fucking medical order, Captain. Go to your quarters.”

     The doctor released the captain and turned to his patient, and Jim took three rapid steps back to avoid the rush of the nurse and Eisenberg toward the Vulcan’s bedside. And, as focused as he was on the commotion in front of him, he failed to hear the soft hiss of gas until it was too late. And then all went dark.

 

 


	4. IV.

 IV.

 

     “No!” Jim came back to consciousness with a shout, his head pounding and his body covered with sweat as he sat up, arms flailing. He groaned under the pressure of a slightly higher gravity, a light-headed sensation hinting at lower ambient oxygen content.

     “Settle yourself, James,” came a wry reply from behind him, and Jim spun on the floor, recognizing what appeared to be a vessel’s control room, seeing the intruder standing casually against a bulkhead with a phaser in his hand, low light casting his scarred countenance into dark relief. And, kneeling on the deck a meter from the intruder, his hands restrained behind his back, was Spock, still dressed in loose and rumpled sickbay scrubs. The first officer was pale and breathing unevenly, his shoulders slumped, and he was staring at Jim with something akin to desperation in his eyes.

     Jim forced his gaze away from his friend to focus on the intruder. This man, this other Vulcan, was still a largely unknown quantity aside from the danger that Jim could see in the way he stood, in the way he held the weapon, and the calculation in his dark stare. Jim’s eyes flicked quickly around the room, taking in blinking consoles and a small transporter alcove, and the stranger made a low noise.

     “Have no fear, James; we will not be disturbed. The security measures on your ship were quite…obvious.”

     Jim swallowed, gathering himself before pushing up slowly from the deck, standing and squaring his shoulders. “You will address me as Captain Kirk, if you address me at all. You are under arrest for kidnapping of a Starfleet officer, assault, mental assault, attempted murder of a Starfleet officer—.” He stopped at the unlikely sight of a Vulcan laughing at him.

     “James, your flair for the dramatic is similar, at least.”

     “What do you want?” Jim stepped closer to one of the consoles.

     The Vulcan’s smile remained. “You, James. I came for you. Obviously.” He gestured flippantly, continuing, “Go ahead and attempt to call for help. We are completely isolated.” He glanced around. “I believe you will find that the security measures on my own craft are somewhat more sophisticated.”

     Jim crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hide his unsteadiness. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

     “You will soon see; we have a little time left.” The older Vulcan paused, his tongue flicking out to lick his full lower lip. “ _T’hy’la_.”

     Jim ignored the taunt, his eyes narrowing. “Spock? You okay?”

     “Yes, Captain.” The first officer’s eyes had not left Jim’s face and his voice was weak and strained.

     Jim made a small movement forward, addressing the intruder even as his gaze remained on his friend. “If it’s me you want, then let him go.”

     The intruder chuckled sharply, and now there was no humor in it. “But it is both of you that I now have, and with good reason. James, you will come to me and freely offer your mind. You will bind yourself to me unconditionally.”

     “Why the fuck would I do that?”

     “You will do it, or you will watch the one you love die, and then I will have you anyway.”

     Jim swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “Why don’t you just make me do it, like before? Why this game?”

     A hungry look came over the intruder’s face. “Because I want to punish Spock for interrupting me; I want him to feel you consciously and willingly surrender to me before his connection to you is severed forever.” He tilted his head. “It is to your Vulcan’s credit that he fights for you so strongly, even though he had not known of the link’s existence until I showed him.” The intruder leered. “Even though he had not known of your…regard or deigned to acknowledge his own.”

     Spock’s eyes lowered and Jim gritted his teeth, glaring at their enemy. “You’re insane.”

     The intruder shrugged. “I am. Nevertheless, what is your decision?”

     “Fuck you.”

     “In time.” The intruder almost casually turned his phaser and fired into Spock’s body, and Jim saw the Vulcan fall to the side, his body limp but his eyes still open. “Another chance, James?”

     “No,” Jim whispered, and the intruder turned the weapon toward the captain, leaning over the helpless Vulcan to place a small metallic device on Spock’s chest.

     “No!” Jim surged forward, and the stun bolt hit him in the stomach, sending him rolling onto the floor, his limbs twitching. And then he could only watch as the intruder manipulated the device, sending Spock’s body into pained, silent convulsions.

     Cold, dark eyes watched the captain. “You can stop this at any time.” He shrugged again. “Or not. I don’t care. Maybe you find it as appealing as my captain did.”

     Jim stared at his friend, at wide, agonized brown eyes, at the trickle of blood that was seeping from the corner of his mouth along with heaving, ragged breaths.

     “I’ll do it,” he hissed.

     “N-n-n-o!” Jim cringed at the pain in Spock’s broken voice.

     “I’ll fucking do it!” the captain said, louder, still unable to move.

     The intruder smiled, white teeth flashing, yet he still held the device in place. “I want you to hear him scream, James. I want to share that with you.”

     Spock’s eyes were open, but unfocused, blood flowing from his nose to mix in grisly trails with the green liquid staining his cheek and chin.

     “Scream, Spock,” The intruder murmured silkily. “Scream, _sa-kai_ , for all that you are about to lose.”

     The cries, when they finally came, were raw and gasping, and Jim closed his eyes against them, hearing the intruder’s mocking laugh. “You will have to be stronger than that, James.”

     “Goddammit!” Jim yelled, and as feeling returned to his body he jerked on the cold floor, hands scrabbling. “You’ll kill him!  Stop it!”

     The device lifted, and the intruder smiled with oily ease. “As you wish, _t’hy’la_.”

     “Just tell me—.” Jim faltered, seeing Spock’s eyes close. “Just tell me why.”

     Dark eyes gleamed. “Because my captain died and I could do nothing to save him. Bloody vengeance left me cold, and the supreme power I wrested in the wake of his passing was nothing without him by my side.” The smooth voice wavered. “The fabric of your universe is thin due to prior exchange with another, and your temporal reality, though distorted, is close enough to my own to serve. I found I would do anything to have my mate back with me, including finding a shadow of him elsewhere and remaking him as I remember.” The older Vulcan let out an odd hiss. “He would most likely approve of my…creativity.”

     The intruder paused, seeming to gather himself before stepping toward Jim, reaching out to grasp the collar of his civilian t-shirt and pulling the confused human up effortlessly. “As I shall have to remake you, my new James. To soothe my…insanity.” He leaned to the side, offering the captain a clear view of his first officer, lying motionless and bleeding on the deck.

     “I shall teach you that pain is beautiful: the purest and the basest thing that unites all lifeforms. It brings us into this world and, if we are lucky, quickly takes us out of it. It will be the basis for our bond.” His tone grew distant, “I’ve experienced pain the likes of which you cannot conceive.” He chuckled again, but the grating sound collapsed into a choked noise. “Nor your friend, for all that his planet was consumed. The pain of losing _k’war’ma’khon_ is but a spark compared to feeling your _t’hy’la_ burn, and your bond burn with him. Burning out your mind…your _katra_ …everything tasting of ash and dust and desolation…the better part of you gone and your screams unable to bring him back… .”

     Sensing a slight loosening in the hand fisted in his shirt, Jim struggled, and was suddenly flung away, hitting the side of a console and crumpling to the floor, dazed.

     The imposter strode to the prostrate Vulcan’s side to send a vicious kick into his midsection. “Wake up, Spock. You’ll want to watch as I enter his mind; you’ll want to see his expression as he realizes what it truly is and what it means.”

     And Jim could only watch as the intruder stalked toward him, grim purpose etched on his face.

 

 


	5. V.

 V.

 

     “Wait,” Jim said, holding up his hands. “Wait!”

     He had to stall, had to give Security a chance to find them. In his peripheral vision he saw his friend’s eyes slowly open again, the younger Vulcan’s head lolling slightly against the deck.

     The intruder paused, rolling his shoulders casually as a thinly false smile stretched his lips. “And why, James, should I wait? Our time here is running short.”

     Jim slurred over his own rapid words, his head spinning. “You’ve said it yourself: I’m weak, a shadow. What makes you think I can be him for you? What makes you think I’ll survive when he didn’t?” He winced as he thought of everything the intruder had said: another universe, another captain…another Spock, another Kirk…something that mirrored his own, and yet seemed terribly different.

     The older Vulcan watched him, eyes assessing. “You are enough like him to begin. And through our bond I will supplement your memories with his; mold your personality to be his. You will be a ghost, certainly, but I am willing to accept those terms. I am willing to accept anything.”

     Jim saw his friend’s body shudder and shift, the younger Spock’s dark eyes focusing.

     The intruder inclined his head. “Happy endings are perhaps not for us, after all, in any universe, James.” He crouched down, close enough that Jim could feel the warmth from his body, and the captain knew they were out of time. Out of space, out of options, and he saw his friend’s mouth open in a silent plea as the intruder’s hand touched Jim’s face. And an instant before a terrible, ripping sensation crawled through the human’s mind, he finally heard his Spock’s mental voice echoing in a despairing cry.

     _No!_

     But it was too late, and any link between them seemed overpowered by a tide of grief and anger, possessiveness and lust and skewed, volatile tenderness. Jim could feel the recesses of his mind filled, barriers crushed, and all at once he _knew_ this other, glimpsing what had been: another universe, indeed, and another James Kirk. A strategic alliance that had turned into a torrid affair and then a powerful and harsh love that had dared to defy a galaxy and did. All lost on a fateful day, when the fires of something called _pon farr_ turned into the fires of a rival’s well-timed bitter revenge and a weakened and helpless bondmate had been forced to witness his lover’s demise. It had been the beginning of insanity, and the storm of vengeance that had followed had been like nothing seen before, even in that cruel universe. _All meaning lost, but for this. Your mind, James, and your body are both mine. I would do anything for you._ It was madness, but it was somehow familiar: a refusal to accept defeat, a defiance of death itself. It was determined, but even carried by the maelstrom Jim could sense a misfit, a dislocation. Something deep and hidden was crying out, almost as Spock had cried out for Jim on the beach. But even as Jim mentally cringed, the stream of mental energy forged forcefully ahead, heedless.

     Jim gasped, coming back to himself in the other’s arms, sensing a river of soothing and satisfied words rippling through his thoughts. On the deck in front of him, Spock was reaching for Jim, the Vulcan’s dark eyes filled with tears, reaching with raw, openly bleeding marks on his wrists. He had fought, he had tried; he had broken through his restraints again to save his captain, only this time too late.

     Jim couldn’t move, even as unwanted caresses smoothed his hair and he heard the deep inhale of the creature behind him, the tickle of dry lips along his throat and over the shell of his ear.

     “You’re mine, now, James, and always shall be.” The other’s voice cracked on the last word, and then shivered into a soft huff, exclaiming, “Don’t look so forlorn, Spock. I will give you a chance to say your farewells. Your captain has bought you your life, after all, and freedom from an ultimate pain that you could never have borne; remember to be polite and say ‘thank you’.”

     He slowly unfolded himself, leaning Jim’s weakened body against the nearby console and standing. “Interphase will take place in four point two minutes.” He moved away, almost languidly, toward the transporter alcove.

     Feeling was slowly returning to Jim’s limbs, and he shifted against the hard plastisteel, seeing Spock push himself to his hands and knees. Jim’s violated mind was seething with alien emotion, and he had never felt so despondent, or so helpless.

     Spock began to haltingly crawl closer. He was shaking and pale, blood smeared over his chin and cheek and a wild look in his eyes, searching Jim’s face almost frantically.

     “It’s…it’s okay, Spock.”

     “It is not.”

     “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for this; for everything.”

     “Jim… .”

     “No. I should have told you; I should have said something. And now… .”

     “Jim.”

     Something in Spock’s urgent whisper made the captain focus, pulling out of the haze of misery and anger that flailed against the foreign presence in his thoughts.

     “Jim, do you trust me?”

     The captain nodded, seeing everything in his friend’s eyes: anguish, pain…and _love_ : for the first time, love. And he forced himself to look, to memorize it, knowing that it would be the last time he saw it. Regret burst over him and he let out a sob.

     “Two minutes,” intoned the intruder, his voice oily again, and expectant, the phaser in his hand again.

     Jim could sense him, all heat and purpose; he could feel the intruder approaching, but did not take his own eyes from his friend. Spock’s breathing had quickened, and his muscles had tensed; his eyes were nearly black with some primal emotion and, strangely, the human could almost feel that, too. Jim opened his mouth to draw the other’s attention, drew in a ragged breath in preparation to speak—.

     Spock moved, bursting forward with dizzying speed, his hands fierce at Jim’s face and neck, manipulating pressure points, and suddenly Jim couldn’t breathe. He choked, feeling his mouth gape and his lungs burn, feeling the intruder’s mind shriek through his own, and Spock rolled behind the console as a phaser blast hit the floor next to the captain.

    “No!” The intruder kept firing, and Jim fell limply to the side as the top of the console exploded in a hail of plastisteel and sparks.

     His cheek against the cold deck, Jim fought panic and fear as he realized what Spock had done. The intruder would not have him! His mind would be freed by death and he would be himself again, if only for precious seconds. His body jerked helplessly, begging for oxygen, and something deep and obscured within the hated mental connection seemed to coil in expectation.

     “James, James!” The intruder had fallen to his knees next to his bondmate, touching Jim’s face, his pleading voice garbled, desperate. “No, please. James… .”

     Strong arms cradled the captain with improbable tenderness, and Jim’s vision started to blur, looking up to see wide dark eyes, the terror and the grief of the intruder threatening to rip his own mind apart, even at the last.

     “James, my beloved. Not again. Not again. Not—,” the desolate voice floated as Jim’s awareness drifted away, and the captain felt searing pain as something in his mind tore, and then he was free.

 

 


	6. VI.

VI.

 

     Spock had waited for the screams.

     He had waited, crouched behind the curved console, his body shaking and nearly numb, shrugging off the loose medical tunic as it had caught fire from the sparks still flying from the damaged equipment. His own mind was screaming, too; screaming for the ebbing life of his _t’hy’la_ still clutched in another’s arms, screaming with emotions he had never before allowed to surface.

     Those emotions were now consuming him, and he moved with primitive strength despite depleted muscles, drawing from a place normally only found in the throes of _pon farr_. A visceral, desperate power sang within him, pleading with his _t’hy’la_ to hold on even as he ripped a chunk of material from the console and launched himself at his enemy.

     Jim’s eyes were wide open and unseeing, his face slack and gray, and the other’s grief was absolute, his focus distracted, the phaser having fallen to the floor. Spock struck without mercy, and the other’s voice broke off into a pained howl as the makeshift weapon connected with his skull. Again. _And again._

     Spock’s teeth were bared as the transporter panel beeped shrilly in the sudden silence, the other’s bleeding head lolling and Jim’s body having fallen to sprawl on the bloody deck. Spock dropped the bludgeon and grabbed a handful of the intruder’s tunic, dragging his body toward the pad.

     Despite his rage, Spock’s weakened physique resisted and he slipped, falling hard to his knees even as he continued to pull his enemy relentlessly forward, feeling one of his fingernails rip in the other’s tunic. _Time, time, out of time. Jim, please stay._

     The prostrate and nearly insensible Vulcan moaned and murmured, “You…you have killed him. I did not think…I did not think you could…that you would ever… .”

     Spock hissed raggedly, “And _you_ should know better than any that a _t’hy’la_ bond is without end.” He stifled a cough, his chest burning as he shoved the intruder onto the platform. Spock could barely breathe, but Jim couldn’t at all. “You may have weakened ours, but you could not destroy it. Even death could not destroy it; but it _could_ destroy that travesty of a connection you imposed.”

     Spock heard the growing chime of the initializing beam above him and reached out with shaking hands to rip the other’s tunic apart, displaying familiar scarring. He stared into astonished dark eyes, growling, “And when you bare your chest to the winds, after having thusly betrayed your bond, you should beg for forgiveness, _brother_ , from your own _t’hy’la_ , who waits in judgment.”

     A harsh shove, and Spock threw himself backward, seeing the other’s shocked and despairing expression disappear as the beam took him. And then he turned and kept moving, crawling to his captain’s side. His own blood pounded in his ears, a cold sensation radiating across his body and into his mind, and he pressed desperately at the series of pressure points in rapid succession. He clutched at Jim with shaking hands, turning him to lie flat, beginning frantic resuscitation only to feel the faint tendrils of their damaged link begin to unravel.

     And then it was no question what he needed to do, his hands moving from their position on Jim’s chest to the human’s psi-points, the Vulcan’s own eyes closing as he dove into thick blackness to chase bare, tentative light. Not just duty, this. Not a sacrifice for honor or guilt but a plunge towards hope, a headlong rush into a well of forbidden emotion. Logic dictated not to love his captain. Logic demanded for him not to follow this man into this final place. But Spock did love, and he did follow, and he would bring Jim back, or die at his side.

 

 


	7. VII. and Epilogue

 VII.

 

     Consciousness found Jim abruptly and he gasped for air, filling straining lungs and gulping again and again until blind panic eased. He blinked rapidly, struggling against a pervasive weakness that weighed down his limbs, finally registering the stark absence of the intruder’s mind; an absence made even more obvious by what had taken its place.

     Jim craned his head, peering around the silent room and seeing no sign of their enemy besides the abandoned weapon. Spock was lying next to him, shirtless and with verdant blood staining his face and hands, his eyes closed and his body seemingly lifeless. But the Vulcan was alive; Jim _knew_ this, just as he knew that the gentle, warm presence now perceptibly entwined in his thoughts was his friend’s. The captain tried to speak and simply coughed, his throat raw. He still felt light-headed, and closed his eyes once again, trying to concentrate, trying to _remember_.

     There had been that terrible, invading power and then Spock’s fingers on his face and then Jim couldn’t breathe. Death had seemed different this time, somehow, and he had felt the forced bond with the other break, the human’s final perceptions being of freedom and utter trust in his friend. Jim dragged in another pained breath, twisting his aching body to look around the control room again, unbelieving that the intruder was truly gone.

     “He…is gone, Jim. Returned to…to his universe.” Spock spoke without opening his eyes, and his voice was no more than a raw whisper, the cruelly artful tracings of the barely healed knife wounds on his torso reflecting greenish-silver in the low light.

     Jim grunted weakly, turning onto his side as he pushed himself closer to his friend. “You sure? That…fucker seemed to…be able to…appear out of…thin air.” He coughed again, his chest aching.

     “He is gone. At the…predicted interphase…programmed…transport. I should have killed him. I should have—.”  Spock’s struggling words disappeared into a wet cough, fresh green coloring his pale lips.

     Jim remembered the intruder’s cryptic countdown, evidently for a scheduled transport window, furrowing his own brow as he shifted even closer to the Vulcan, drawn to his friend’s comforting presence.

     “Spock.” The captain reached out and laid a shaking hand over the Vulcan’s. His friend’s breathing was uneven and shallow, his skin cool, and Jim was filled with a sense of gut-wrenching alarm. “Spock? Don’t…don’t you go anywhere.”

     “I cannot.”

     Jim blinked, surprised, somehow able to sense a cutting sense of irony in the Vulcan’s whisper. “Spock, what—?”

     Dark eyes opened slowly and Spock’s fingers twitched against Jim’s. “He…was me. He is me.” He drew in a labored breath. “I understood, only too well…why he would have taken you…from me. I could not…allow him and now we are—.”

     Jim clasped his friend’s limp hand closely. “I know.” He swallowed. “But you’re not him.” He spoke as firmly as he could despite his breathless weakness. “You’re…you’re—.”

     “I am yours.” Spock’s voice was pained. “And always shall be. Our bond is…is—.” He trailed off into a wheezing inhale.

     “Yes.” Jim’s softly earnest reply acknowledged everything. “You saved my life. Again.”

     The Vulcan turned his head, a bead of blood slipping from his mouth along the contour of his face even as a single tear fell from his eye. “I should have…known what you were to me. I felt…I feel deep emotion for you and did not tell you; I could not admit it to myself. It was not…logical.” His breathing was worsening, the damage from the near-drowning becoming acute after brutal exertion.

     Jim shook his head. “I didn’t want to lose your friendship.” He paused. “But I love you. I’m in love with you.” He spoke quickly, wanting to say the words before anything else happened. His silence before this whole incident seemed, in hindsight, so ridiculous: he had been so sure of himself, and of Spock, and it turned out he had understood nothing.

     “Spock?” The Vulcan’s eyes had closed again and Jim lifted Spock’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his friend’s fingers. “Spock?” he urged, a dull sense of fear running down his spine. He grasped his friend’s hand with both of his own, gently stroking smooth skin.

     “Jim.” It wasn’t even a whisper, but the captain could hear it. He could _feel_ it. “My…my Jim.”

     “Spock—.”

     A low tone suddenly sounded behind him; a garbled note from the damaged console, and the low lighting flashed amber, a static-filled voice murmuring in _Vuhlkansu_. Jim stiffened, his heart racing, recognizing a self-destruct sequence when he heard one.

     “Fuck. Fuck!” Jim’s exclamation was weakly heated. “Give us a fucking break, already!” He moved, reluctantly letting go of Spock’s hand to try to push his own body up. But the air was too hot and too thin and the gravity was oppressive, and he was so weak; he could barely force oxygen into his lungs. He wavered on sweaty hands and knees, reaching for the console, and then slipped, collapsing back to the floor. “Fuck,” he hissed, helplessly, angrily. The intruder must have set a destruct sequence for the craft, programmed to initiate after his return to his own universe.

     Spock was unresponsive next to him and Jim tried again, managing to grasp the top of the console before a wave of dizziness shook him and he nearly lost consciousness, finding himself suddenly back on the floor next to his friend as the low mechanical tone began to repeat itself, over and over.

     There was nothing Jim could do, and he gritted his teeth, using the last of his strength to roll over, his arm falling across Spock’s body and his face pressed into his friend’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he muttered against skin that was too cool, against a fluttering, fading pulse. The deck shuddered underneath them and the tone rose in pitch, growing louder and more constant until it almost sounded like the chime of a transporter beam. _Almost like—._

 

*****

 

     Jim stood stiffly in his quarters, staring at his computer. He didn’t want to actually sit at his desk, though, preferring to keep an illogical distance between himself and the seemingly innocuous text that burned into his screen:

 

_> > For you, James, I would do anything; even, it seems, allow you this happy ending._

 

     “Tell me how. Again.” Jim’s voice was tight, his arms crossed over his chest.

     “Preliminary computer simulations indicate that an interdimensional transport solution would have been significantly affected by the presence of only one pattern.”

     Spock stood next to the desk, a PADD held in his hands. His dark eyes still had smudges of fatigue under them against too-pale skin and his voice still held a touch of roughness and Jim sighed, releasing a hand and stepping forward to gently grasp Spock’s upper arm.

     “Come and sit down; you look exhausted.” He steered his bondmate away from the desk and its offending message, behind the partition and into the sleeping area, prompting the Vulcan to sit on the bed. Jim gazed down at his friend and shook his head, saying softly, “Only one pattern. He had expected me to be with him when he programmed that transporter.”

     “Yes.”

     “So, he didn’t go back.”

     “No.”

     “But he went somewhere.” Jim frowned. “I guess we can safely assume that he was responsible for those miraculous transport coordinates that Scotty received just before that ship blew up.” He swallowed. “Quite a change of heart.”

     The Vulcan gaze was steady. “I disagree, Jim; his motives have been quite consistent with regard to your survival.”

     “Maybe.” Jim rubbed his hands over his face and sat down heavily next to his bondmate. “It means he’s not gone. He could try again.”

     “He will not.” Spock’s eyes narrowed, and Jim sensed a rush of blistering heat across their bond: an underlying instability that had shivered between them since their unlikely awakening in medbay two days before.

     “Because of what you told him of his own _t’hy’la_. Because even though that James Kirk is dead, something of their bond remains.” Jim pressed his lips together. “Command’s gonna have a field day; we couldn’t even trace the message.”

     Spock lifted an eyebrow, visibly attempting to bring himself under tremulous control. “Results suggest that interphase with his own universe is now close to impossible, given present parameters.”

     “But ours is evidently still fair game,” Jim said dryly. “Fuck.”

     “I would be aware of his presence.” Spock’s tone was clipped and fiercely protective, and Jim knew that the Vulcan had been pushed too far.

     “I know.” The captain smiled with deliberate reassurance, reaching to take the PADD from hands that held the smallest of tremors. He tilted his head, taking a deep breath and trying to project calm, changing the subject. “How long?”

     Spock lowered his eyes. “Days, or a week, perhaps. I have not experienced this before.”

     “That bastard was just a gift that keeps on giving.” Jim bit back his sarcasm as his bondmate flinched. “Sorry.” He placed the device to the side and reached out, two fingers extended, seeing warmth soften intense brown eyes as Spock met the _ozh’esta_ in kind. “It’ll be okay.”

     “It may not be,” Spock replied absently, watching their fingers. “This _pon farr_ was triggered prematurely by…by—.” He trailed off, his voice catching.

     “By someone trying to take your mate from you,” Jim finished sadly. “In the worst possible way.” He moved his hand, entwining their fingers. “But it will be okay. Trust me.” He tilted his head, waiting for Spock’s eyes to meet his. “Trust me?”

     “Yes.”

     The Vulcan’s tone held so much tiredness, so much pain yet remaining, and anticipation of the looming unknown that was to come. Jim reached out with his other hand to gently run his fingers through silky, black hair. “I am yours, you know. _Yours_.” His lips quirked. “For better or for worse, and I think we’ve had quite enough of the latter.”

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

     Heat surrounded him, and though there was some pain, it was engulfed by the beautiful sensuality of their bodies and minds together. And the love they shared now seemed boundless, endless, as timeless as the mystery of shifting mirrors between universes. There were wells of astonishing emotion, awe and excitement, and the pleasure of being known. There were sharp edges to each of them, too, hidden places, and the rolling comfort of home: room to learn, and everything to explore. And in the midst of all of it, there was intense pleasure, strengthening and reinforcing the bond between them. It was on the very cusp of being both too much and not enough all at the same time, and in their passion Jim understood so clearly why losing _this_ would mean madness.

     And near the end, when the fever had quieted to mere embers and peace was within reach, there was a fleeting moment when Jim imagined his own voice lifted in a scream, phantom flames against his skin, and an icy caress drifting over his shoulder. He felt the pressure of a formidable gaze and thought he heard a voice whisper in his ear: _You will be a ghost, certainly, but I am willing to accept those terms. I am willing to accept anything_. And he fancied he heard a familiar chuckle, echoing in the room. But when he came back to himself in the arms of his sleeping _t’hy’la_ and stared into the darkness around them, there was no one else there.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, and I make no money from this.

 

 

Author’s Note:  A huge thanks to RowanBaines and missBAMF, who both read early versions of this story and encouraged me.

 

 


End file.
